To Be A Father
by FroggyFran
Summary: Being a dad was all England could ever really want, but this is one thing he just can't do. America x England Yaoi LEMON oneshot


Holy shit, hey guys. Here's a new oneshot! This took a pretty long time too (atleast by my standards) so please enjoy it!

And no, this is not an mpreg. It's just daddy!England haha. With some heavy US x UK at the end hurrrrr.

Please review while you're at it! I'll love you, and get to my next fic even faster! :

---

England was a father.

A father of ideas, culture, government, language, and of nations.

Nations that didn't want a father.

More than anything in the world, England wanted to remember what day it had been, what month, and what year, when he had found America. It must have been sometime in the 1600's, he tried to guess, because he'd had him for nearly two hundred years.

What a tiny little thing he'd been, with petite pale arms and legs just barely peeking out from under lace and frills. He wouldn't let England near him for a long time. Especially when England realized that he was not fond of the other man vying for his attention, the frog. So England would escape France, and find time to be alone with the child, the curiosity-inducing creature.

"Where's your mother?" he had asked, knowing no better as he crouched in the tall grass, peering over it to the tiny head of blonde hair the color of sunflowers.

"I don't know what that is," it had replied meekly, little yellow cowlick twitching over the grass. England shifted his feet, and he watched the little boy shift back himself.

"Don't be afraid," he had shushed quietly, barely above the cool breeze of the New World, "I want to be your big brother."

He could always remember, even if he was drunk and completely incapacitated, the little face that had peered back at him when he had said that. Big cobalt eyes twinkled in childish mirth, and his cheeks were pink with youth. "I don't know what that is either."

England remembered opening his arms, knowing that the small creature was still so very wary, too wary to embrace the lonely nation. But England had just smiled, and dropped his arms when he realized that it was simply asking too much. "It means I want to be the person who takes care of you."

The blonde babe had blinked quizzically, eyes as blue as his flag. And he knew he had to have him.

"...Will you visit me often?" it whispered, as if he would be beaten for asking such a thing. He must have been so lonely, with no other nation to speak with. With the way he hid, he must have been afraid of the natives too. England's heart had become swollen.

"Every day," he promised, smile growing wider and wider as he watched the little golden cowlick bounce its way through long green blades of grass until there he was, standing right in front of his father nation. His little fists had been clenched in his smudged white nightgown, dirty with neglect and childish filthiness.

England had never been a father to anything before, but the look on the face of his cherub, a look of loneliness, told him that he was meant to be this child's caretaker. So when the toddler had scooted closer and closer, his tiny grubby hands touching his kneeling thigh, he opened his suddenly cautious arms. He realized, then, that he had not the faintest idea about childcare, so who was he to deem himself a father? His hands trembled lightly as the child voluntarily stood between them, giving only the greatest invitation to pick him up. And England did happily.

"Look how dirty you are," he had laughed softly, "How about we give you a bath, hm?"

"What's that?" The boy nestled deep into the Brit's stiff arms, getting used to the feeling of another person against his own. England only chuckled, and tried his best to loosen up his muscles and take in the feeling of a baby against his breast, where he had felt his heart swell even more.

"It's what we do to keep ourselves clean and proper and gentlemanly."

"What's a gentleman?"

"I am a gentleman," he had answered proudly, squeezing the soft little limbs of the boy in his arms, "and you will be one too, someday." England remembered the sweet blue in that baby's eyes drift like the ocean that surrounded his home, and close as he was swept away by the loud thumping beat of the heart pressed to his little ear. This was what it was like to love something.

"Sounds fun."

---

England didn't want to think of Alfred as his experimental child, because that seemed downright cruel. But it was true.

It wasn't as if he planned on having more children anyway, because god only knew where he'd find them. America was a miracle all on his own, and England had only been so lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

So when he'd make a mistake, he'd take it as seriously as his heart would allow without making him keel over in stress and worry. Like the first time America scraped his knee running through the house England had ordered to be built for him, England had applied at least ten different medicines and salves and wrapped his knee in so much gauze, he couldn't even bend it.

"I'm not gonna die," his boy had told him, not a tear in his eye, not a wince of pain upon his flesh. But England had to make sure he did everything humanly possible for his child.

Another example would be the first time England went on a walk with America about his forest and they happened upon a grizzly cub. England had grabbed the tiny boy and high tailed it as fast as he could all the way back to the house, even when America protested that "it was just a baby" and he "wanted to wrestle it!"

England wouldn't let America outside for a month after that, much to America's objection.

He realized, only centuries later, that that over protectiveness was what nearly killed him.

Time passed, and America was growing like any boy his age, except every twenty or so years was the equivalent to a single year for his body. The boy took it as it was, and never complained.

"I'm patient," he would tell England, standing by the doorframe with the tiny black lines on the side, labeled such things as "America: Age 3" or "America: Age 7", just waiting for England to measure him again, as if waiting five minutes would let him grow a foot or two. Little things like that made England smile so very, very much.

That declaration of patience was a lie to the ears of the father, but who could have cared, at that moment? It only mattered when he least expected it.

"I have a baby brother, too, ya know!"

England had remembered America saying that, and he had immediately become interested. "Really?"

"Yeah! He's really little, and he's got really soft hair, like France, 'cause France is his dad."

Of course, England would have been irked by that fact.

"But France never lets me play with him, 'cause he knows that you're my dad."

And then England felt like one of those forceful mothers, making sure her child was allowed to do everything and anything, under her demanding voice. America could play with anyone he wanted to, and he'd be there to make sure of it.

Of course, it didn't exactly help that he was in the middle of a war, at the time, and that France was on the opposing side. Nor did it help that he was still keeping his promise to a child, and that he was away from his homeland when she needed him most.

But he believed he'd found a way to make that all work in his favor.

So with America's strong approval for the sake of his brother (or maybe just the prospect of being less lonely), England fought France for Canada. Canada had seemed mixed, when the Englishman had came upon him, as if he wasn't sure whom he liked more: America, or France. And though England grimaced when the boy would stutter out in French, he could clearly hear the need for _Amerique _in his voice, and the tale of the lost twins.

England was gone for seven years.

He had fought on several fields yes, with Prussia at his side, but in 1763 (He'd remembered, since he cataloged every victory over France) Canada was his. And it might have been guilt, or some foreign sickness from the natives America was so frightened of, that welled up in his heart as he watched France sign away his son, eyes dark and cold with absolute defeat. Canada had cried the whole way home.

_Where's papa?_

And England couldn't say a single word. He'd given Canada the freedom from France, given him the ability to see his brother again, and what could England say to that child, practically screaming with the pain in his tiny little heart? Nothing.

He wondered, with pure horror, if someone was going to come along and steal America away like he had Canada from France.

And he wanted to cry, just like the child in his arms, the child that would never be his no matter how hard he tried. But he wouldn't cry. He would fight.

As soon as he could, after making sure Canada was alright by himself, and promising that he'd be back as soon as he checked up on America, he was off to see his boy.

When he got there, there was no sweet baby there to greet him, like there had been every single time before this one, and England had been so positively happy with that, that piece of happiness that he couldn't get anywhere else in the world. But it wasn't there.

Then he remembered that he'd been gone for near a decade.

_What was I expecting?_ He had asked himself, as he ran to his child's house, _That'd he'd wait for me for this long?_

His feet were smarting in his stiff leather shoes, but he pounded on America's door and caught his breathe loudly against it.

"America!" he'd cried out, knowing his son was probably more than angry with him. But England would give his arms and legs to be forgiven, just so he could see the smiling face of his little angel gleaming up at him in the adoration that no one else had ever given him before.

England nearly expected America to ignore him, in all the assumed furiousness. But he was still surprised when the lock to the door clicked, and opened up to him as if he were anyone.

But that was not his angel.

What stood before him had been a man.

But not quite a man; what greeted the gentleman was a pale lanky lad that didn't look a day over 15, with a dramatically familiar yellow cowlick and big shining eyes as crisp and salty as the sea.

"Hey there, England!" it cried. England had to actually look up, at a very narrow slope at least, to look him eye to eye, since England had never really been the biggest sod he knew, but he certainly wasn't the smallest. At least that's what he wanted to believe. But this boy, this teenage boy, must have been his height superior by a few good inches. "Where've you been?"

England knew he'd opened his mouth to speak, but his brain shriveled up, and his jaw hung open like it would on a dead fish.

His angel had been a man all along.

"...Were you expecting someone different?" the lanky child asked, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. England had thought to himself, while his brain was still trying to recover, _I was expecting someone who would stay the same forever, actually_.

"...Y-You..." he had managed to say, "...Aren't...M-Mad?"

"Nah," America grinned out, and England's heart gave a few quick painful jumps. His boy was a man, a man! "I know you're a busy guy, being the most successful nation in the world right now, so I tried not to let it get to me."

He almost let a whimper escape, at that moment, at the hurting in his chest. He felt guilty for leaving his boy, and not being there for when he became a man, but also, he felt the strange churning in his gut at his son's words, the way they felt..._Uncaring_.

While England had been away, had America forgotten how much he loved him?

Had he ever loved England as much as England had loved America?

And it was then that he unwillingly chose to recall those cold nights of winter time, when they'd snuggle up before the stone and brick fireplace and England would tell him pirate stories, and America would sit in his lap and practice his counting, using their combined fingers and toes peeking out from under the soft wool. And they'd fall asleep with whispered words of love, with tiny pudgy hands in large bony calloused hands, with two sets of blonde hair wiggling and giggling beneath the warmth, with tickling and kicking and laughing.

"Want some tea? I've got earl gray!"

And when America turned away, England felt the tears roll down his face.

Not long after that, America had his Revolution, and England cried yet again.

He had failed at being a father.

---

England holed himself up for a while. He wouldn't see anyone, not even his own boss, on occasion, until they'd knock on his door and _order_ him up and about, because they knew how Britain could seldom refuse a direct command. But he didn't like it.

Getting back on his feet was harder than he thought. He had been so angry, when America had pushed him away for the final time, but the closer he got to home after that dreary war, the more he wanted to just go and die. He remembered the moment he stepped back onto his beloved shore: he simply stared up at his beautiful Big Ben, and sobbed.

But it was not right. His country was doing quite well, but there he was: the representative, the old codger who'd lived centuries and millennia, with bags under his eyes and the seemingly never-ending flood of tears coming forth as well.

He was a disgrace to his country.

It didn't help that, once he really did get back on track, with only a slouch and such dead green eyes one would wonder if he was constantly in deep thought to show his emotional turmoil, Canada began to act up.

But he'd never been so attached to Canada as he had his older brother.

And when he visited, and that sweet darling looked up at him and stuttered out as much English as he could, all England could see was his baby, _his_ baby, with shiny blonde hair and soft pink cheeks and briny blue eyes and a smile that sang as though it were given to him by God and Heaven.

This was not _his_ baby; this was a replacement.

It was never Canada's fault, he would reassure when the boy would recognize _that_ look on England's face and begin to cry, it would never ever be Canada's fault. And the guilt would only seize him tighter, that now Canada had a father that didn't love him like his old father had.

But France would always be finding a way to sneak into his former territory and dote on Canada so acutely that England would actually admit to the tears he shed when he came upon them once. France had his curly-haired son nestled tightly in his arms, and England could see the shaking in his broad shoulders as he squeezed as hard as he could without absolutely breaking the boy, and said boy returned it just as intensely, albeit with tiny little hands that could never amount to much strength anyway.

"Mon fils," he had heard him cooing into that shiny blonde hair that was so much like his own. England could tell he was crying, from the thick swallowing and tightness in his voice, "Mon fils."

After that incident, England never held Canada in his arms again.

His arms were simply not good enough.

"...I'd...I-I'd like a better...Government, please."

And England knew where that idea was about to take him. He fought it a little bit, but Canada had grown up just like America had, with curling hair and beautiful violet eyes, and if he were half the man his brother was, then England was in for another heartbreaking revolution.

He couldn't take the betrayal from _both_ sons. He just couldn't.

So instead of fighting Canada tooth and nail like he had with his brother, he agreed with as little bloodshed as possible, and signed away his son just like France had.

"Don't worry, dad," Canada had smiled up at him, almost as an apology for growing up. "You can still visit me whenever you want."

That should have quelled his need to go hide in his room again, had it not been for the Frenchman who immediately jumped into the scene and embraced his boy like he'd been a soldier back from the war just itching to hold his girl again. England could only watch as Canada cried out and embraced him right back, murmuring sticky sweet French to each other with a hundred pounds of "tu m'as manqué" and "amour, amour".

So he retreated again.

---

Hong Kong was a boy of few words, few emotions. And when England won him over during the Opium War with China, he fell in love again.

At the time, he was barely getting through Canada's rebellion, but he had a new child to keep his sad, sad thoughts in check: a child with dark hair and oriental eyes.

England was growing tired of the crestfallen face that these fathers wore when he stole away their children. France had had it, and so had China. He reasoned that they should have fought a tougher battle, if they wanted to keep their children. But with a quick scrawl of calligraphy ushered from shaky pale hands, the deed was done, and China had abandoned his son.

And Hong Kong had been so furious. He would try to curse England in all manners of ways, but his messages never got through, since England couldn't speak Chinese in the least. He wondered why he had even adopted him.

Oh, the port. The port.

But was that really all it was? Of course not.

For Hong Kong had the face of his father's: sweet and soft like a mother's, but stern and nearly mocking.

And England loved that.

Not that England fancied China all that much, with the opium wars and silk trading mishaps, and that foreign and grating voice that England could barely stand for a moment, but his son was beautiful and quiet.

So England personally saw to Hong Kong's education, teaching him his beloved English, and his vast history, and of the stars and numbers and science and philosophies. And his Hong Kong grew.

When Canada became independent, and he came home to sulk, Hong Kong was there at the door, trained also in the ways of a gentleman, it seemed. But he did not open his arms to his father, did not smile and welcome him home. He didn't even ask where he had been.

"You're back," he had stated, black eyes blinking up at him less than interested.

England nearly broke.

Was there not a person in this world who would love him?

The Briton could remember the tears that were all too common those days rushing down his face, and the look of indifference that was clearly in place on his son's.

"You must be tired," he said eventually, assuming England was crying from stress. Because that was what England had taught him.

And England only cried harder.

This boy, too, would never be his.

In 1997, the treaty expired, and Hong Kong returned to China.

England was tallying the score.

---

During World War II, England built HM Fort Roughs so he could take down those goddamn Nazis before they could lay their mines on his lands.

However, all things come to an end, and so did the war, including the need for an off-coast guard tower. He left it abandoned out there.

But leave it to humans to fight for the things they want.

England had been enjoying his afternoon tea, that sticky summer day, when a knock came to his door. Hong Kong had merely shrugged when England directed his attention to him, and let the Brit's curiosity run free.

He opened the door to a brazen little blonde boy in a blue sailor uniform, with his little hand up in a salute. He had big bright eyes the color of the sea.

Those _eyebrows_.

"Hey! My name is Sealand!"

At that point, England had thought it a joke: A complete and utter joke. He had never heard of this country, and what could he possibly want with him?

But...Those _eyebrows_!

His lip trembled as he slackened his jaw and asked that boy what was what. "...Who are you, exactly?"

"Sealand! Can't you tell? I'm your son!"

And England's heart stopped.

Not again.

That was the worst possible prank anyone could ever pull on a sad and lonely old man.

He slammed the door shut, and stared at it for a long moment. He heard Hong Kong shift in his seat behind him, probably wondering just what his "father" was doing.

But England said nothing. When the knocking continued, he simply locked the door and walked away.

---

"...What are you crying about now, huh?"

England didn't turn to acknowledge the other blonde in the room, but he curled up his legs so his knees pressed to his wet cheeks. He tried to breathe.

"Seriously, why do you gotta cry so much?"

"If you are merely here to mock me," he gasped, more tears spilling down his face, "then I wish you to leave."

The American didn't say anything to that. But he watched the Englishman tremble against himself, the hushed sobbing the only sound in the whole house, for not a mouse stirred in England's despair.

"C'mon," America chided quietly, making away from the door and toward the man curled up on his spacious bed, "Don't be like that."

England could faintly hear the rustling of plastic over his own sobs, but pushed it aside in favor of his own demise. "C'mon, Arthur."

"Leave me be," he whispered as hands touched him softly, and he nearly gave in and threw himself into them.

"Look. Hey, look."

England, out of curiosity, turned around and opened a bleary bloodshot eye to his American son, and was instead met with a bouquet of rosebays. The plastic wrapping crumpled and folded in the American's big calloused hands, and the flowers bounced about in his nervousness.

England voiced his question through his eyes as best he could.

"I...I knew you'd be upset," he started, staring at his hands through his thinly framed Texas, "You're upset every year."

It wasn't the only holiday that England had spoiled for himself; in fact, there were several.

But America was the only one who came back every time to make it better.

"...And I know this isn't a rough-tough manly gift, but you don't like my football, and like hell I'm going to get you another tie...So think of it as more of a...more of a 'hey dad, I love you' gift, alright?"

"...A-Al...Fred..." he choked out. Looking down to the nearly smothered flowers in his son's tight grip, he realized that those were the flowers of London. Then he wondered if it were merely a coincidence, or had America actually put thought into it? It's not like Rosebay's are particularly common for a bouquet...

"Yeah, I know it's weird, but I hate seeing you get this way every time this day rolls around, and knowing that it's mostly my fault. I'm not going to say sorry for what I did, because I can't ever apologize for freedom, but I'm sorry for hurting you the way I did...Jesus, Arthur, please stop crying already."

It wasn't like Arthur could stop the way his eyes worked or anything, or the ache in his heart, because he had lost that control centuries ago. He hiccupped against the heel of his palm, but slowly took the flowers into his other hand. They were cold against his fevered skin.

"See, they're nice, right? You like 'em?" England hadn't realized just how close America had come to him until he felt his outer thigh pressed against his back, and his hot breath brushing across the nape of his neck. The Englishman shuddered, but hid it in another soft hiccup.

"...Y-Yes...Thank y-you..."

"It was hard finding those too! I had to go to like, a million flower shops, and I know that you have an affinity for roses, with your whole War of the Roses or whatever the heck that was, but it would have been too girly to buy my dad roses."

It was as if every time something father-related came from Alfred's mouth, England could feel a new wave of tears rush from his eyes.

"...Oh c'mon, Arthur, I'm supposed to be making you feel better, not worse."

"Y-You aren't my son anymore..."

And the American child gave him a wide-eyed and surprised look, clear blue eyes ever clearer behind crystal spectacles. And after a moment, he smiled, and England had to hold a hand to his chest to keep his heart from jumping out of him.

"Then..." the American sighed quietly, leaning over his father's shoulder and looking England right in the eye just to make sure he had his full undivided attention. "...What would you like me to be instead?"

All thoughts short-circuited before they could even think of reaching their representative's mouth, and the only thing that came out was a warbled quizzical moan.

What sort of question was that?

"Then again, what purpose would I have to celebrate today with you if you weren't my dad?" he smiled, leaning closer and closer and the boundaries between father and son became tighter and tighter until they snapped like a piece of string and all Arthur could think of were the words bathing over the skin of his neck and the light musk of the American pressed now far too close against his back, a musk that smelled of coffee and cigarettes and expensive cologne.

So England did the only thing anyone would do in that position: Turn around and kiss him.

His hands were still cold and wet from the dripping flowers, as he curled them around the American's neck and let the bouquet slap lightly against his shoulder blade, but America didn't mind in the least, pressing his hands to his father's tiny waist and laying him back onto the suddenly convenient bed beneath them.

England felt so small, drawn under the tall and broad body of his former colony, with large hands swathed with calluses from centuries of bettering his New World and building up his states and cities and making himself known as the Land of Opportunity. He had worked hard to be where he was, and all without the help of England. Said country slipped his hands smoothly across still pink and childish cheeks, and looked beyond the glasses between their gazes. He couldn't help but whisper, "...Did you ever need me?"

England wanted him to deny it, because that's the sort of overdramatic response he yearned for, but he knew from the very moment he found that child that he had no control over him, that he wasn't necessary. America had told him on several occasions that he didn't need his leadership or government, so was he needed for anything at all?

"...Don't ask stupid things like that," he whispered right back, looming farther over the Englishman and pulling his legs open so he could rest between them, "I might not have needed you, but what if I wanted you?"

"But..." he managed through his raw throat, _the Revolution_. But he didn't say the rest. America was at his neck, kissing and biting and loving.

"I wanted you, not your country."

And that was the end of that nonsense. England hitched a whimper in his mouth as the American pushed his hips forward against his own, sliding together for the first time. His legs jerked up and farther apart to fit the larger man, leading to a sweeter friction.

"Lie back and relax, okay? I need to get you undressed."

England could only nod and slowly let his grip go, slipping back onto the soft black comforter of his bed. His legs remained hooked to America's sides, and his hips resting on his thighs, as large hands quickly made their way through the Briton's sweater vest and dress shirt to his pale bony chest. Thumbs teased over his ripe nipples and dragged down over his ribs like they were washboard ridges. The Englishman gripped his bouquet tightly in one trembling hand, and violet crimson petals scattered beside his head. They danced over his nose and his cheeks, and curled into his hair.

"You look amazing like that," the American muttered to the nearly silent room, his hands busying themselves with England's belt. England looked up through blurry eyes at the sunflower yellow hair and bright azure stare directed right back at him, and admitted a soft smile to rest upon his lips. "Is that American romance? Flower petals and scented candles?"

America would have let out a huge sigh of relief, to see the gentleman's humor returned and the crying cease, had he not instead grinned like a wolf and yanked Arthur's pants down his hips and off his legs, eliciting a sharp yelp from said man. "There isn't a single candle to be seen, thanks!"

They proceeded to kiss until they could no longer breathe, with America's trained fingers skidding across the paper white skin of England's thighs, lower and lower until he massaged the connection of flesh between his hips and his legs. Arthur moaned and pressed his head a bit too quickly back into his downy pillows, making the rosebay petals fly about. When America began thrusting his hips again, they flew about even more.

The feeling of rough denim jeans against his unclothed erection made him twist in delicious agony, and America marveled at the stretch of sinewy muscles just beneath the man's skin, making his body look lithe and skinny and young, despite his thousands of years of life. The American nuzzled his nose in the concave area between his ribs and his stomach, his thrusting yet to cease.

"P..." Arthur snipped out, his toes curling and his body still thrashing lightly about his bedding, because America's nose _tickled_ and his breath was so_ hot_ and the need between his legs _throbbed_. "Please!"

"Since when do you ask nicely," he leaned up and whispered behind the Englishman's ears, kissing hot nips along his jawbone as he thrust. As much as that made England's breath come a out a little too short, and his eyes get blurry and his body heat up, England did not recall raising Alfred to be a cock tease.

"By God, Alfred, I am going to skin you like a cat if you don't-"

"Got it, got it."

And so he took him into his mouth.

England must have seemed like a zombie rising back to life, or whatever ghoulish things zombies did because Arthur didn't remember much else of what America was always saying about them (just that they walked like old people and moaned like wanton whores), when he sat up abruptly and cried out. The American must have, as well, found it amusing, because he laughed around the erect flesh in his mouth, making the Briton's legs hike up and try to close around his head desperately, trapping him by the temples. He didn't mind when England kneaded his hands into his sunflower hair and pulled a bit either, because all he wanted at that moment was to hear the sweetly pleasured sobbing that the Englishman was letting out, and he'd endure a hell of a lot of things for that.

"G-Gyyeehh!" Arthur kept his teeth snapped together, his moans sounding more like hisses. His legs were trembling as they kept the American's head relatively in place, despite his up and down movement, as were the fists in his hair. England leaned forward, so his body loomed far above his son's, and whispered expletives and troubled breaths. The mouth around his cock was warm and wet and moving constantly, from either the thrusting motions or the flat slick tongue twirling around it delightfully. "Alf-f-Ah!"

America took it as a warning, slowing to a stop and letting the gladly imprisoned dick free with a wet pop. The Englishman wiped a hand across his face, as if to rid himself of the shame of actually _liking_ his own son sucking him off. But he wasn't his son anymore...right? He merely swiped at the desperate tears and sweat forming on his brow, trying to even out his breath and not scold America for leaving the job unfinished.

He felt hands grasp his thighs tight enough to bruise and pull, making him fall back down onto the bed and moan. He watched the American release his legs (he instead placed them at his thick waist) in favor of toying with his backside. Large hands squeezed his ass playfully, making the gentleman squeak but quickly recover with a red face and a scowl. The hands rubbed in circles on his buttocks, slowly crawling inland, until long bony fingers poked at the pink puckered hole between them.

The American paused and looked down to the British monarchist for any signs of apprehension, but the man in question only squirmed leisurely and returned the look half-heartedly. "G...Go on."

The cowboy didn't need to be told twice. He pressed a single finger forward and breeched the opening, and Arthur let out a clipped moan, fingers scratching at the comforter beneath him. And when Alfred added another finger and let it curl and dig deep, he was there to eagerly swallow up the absolutely blissful shout with an open-mouthed kiss that left the smaller man even more lax. Saliva trailed out of England's mouth in his dazedness, and America could only enjoy it, as the man would never let himself look so ungentlemanly in any other situation but this one.

"Ready now?" he murmured against England's red-hot cheek, unzipping his pants and giving his own erection a good few pumps. England murmured something quietly into the pillow. "What was that, dad?"

"Lube, I said lube! And don't you dare call me that when we're doing this!"

America smiled and pressed a firm kiss to his cheek as he leaned forward and rummaged through the dresser drawer and came up with a tube of scented hand lotion. He shrugged; it'd work.

He applied it liberally to himself, tossed the bottle aside, and positioned again. "How 'bout now?"

The Englishman nodded and turned his head to one side, but America tugged on his arms, putting his hands to his shoulders and silently asking for him to hold on tight. "Look at me."

So he did. England's glowing green eyes twinkled back into full awareness as America pushed in slowly and carefully. His fingers twitched against the American's shoulders, and his mouth fell open in a silent cry, but he never looked away from Alfred.

America breathed calmly as he sheathed himself into the tiny body beneath him. The little fingers at his shoulders were nearly dainty, and with every sharp breath from the Briton, he could see his ribs even more clearly.

"...You used to be so big."

England felt the ancient habit spring to life behind his eyeballs as he heard those familiar words, and his vision blurred. But he wouldn't cry, he promised, not when Alfred meant absolutely no harm and hadn't realized the depth of what he had just said. So England smiled, despite the tears that appeared and escaped on impulse. He could blame those on the dull throbbing pain between his legs as the American went deeper and deeper and he took it all; he smiled, and even laughed as his shoulders trembled like a rabbit in the face of a wolf.

"Well now you're the big one," he nearly couldn't get out, as his throat gave up on him, "I'm glad I raised you properly."

America was silent for a moment, looking down at the Englishman strangely, before looming forward and resting his forehead on the other's, closing his eyes in bliss, encouraging England to do the same. Arthur let out his troubled breath slowly against Alfred's, shifting his hips to get all of the other man situated inside.

The younger man breathed deeply against the Englishman's lips, enjoying the tight warmth that made his pelvis twitch in wonderful agony. It was becoming hard not to thrust, but the conflicted look on Arthur's face made him stay still. Green eyes tried their hardest to stay open during the onslaught of his stretching, but now they were shifting about a bit too wildly for America's liking, and the tears previously shed remained clinging to his red cheeks, not quite previous anymore. "Arthur, calm down."

The gentleman wanted to reply with a quiet "I am calm!" just to further his common character and his habit of denial, but all that came out was a sharp hic, which nearly resembled a sob, and led the American to fuss. "Does it hurt?"

"No!" he cried immediately, lying through his teeth. But it wasn't an unbearable pain; it just made things more uncomfortable than they should have been. Had it not been for the slow drawing-out of the dick inside him and the even slower push back in, he was sure it would have lasted forever. His legs shifted higher and his breath came out quicker as Alfred pulled out and pushed in with care and patience.

The speed was set, and there wasn't much England could do but lie back and enjoy it. He moaned loudly and squeezed the American's shoulders when he'd hit the spot that made his legs seizure and his body turn to goo. Alfred took an interest in the way England's hair bounced with the rest of his body when he thrust violently, the way England's mouth opened and hung that way despite the drool and rather strange face it made, and the way his traffic-light green eyes blazed from beneath blonde eyelashes that fluttered with each maddening movement.

"G-Geez, Arthur," he murmured, his fingers tightening on the hips beneath their grip, "I won't last much longer if you keep making those faces!"

England wanted to voice the question of "what faces?" but all that escaped him was a long drawn out moan as the American filled him deep, and his insides were rubbed raw with intense pleasure. He thrust his own hips back against Alfred's as it became harder to breathe, his moans turning to paced cries every time he was speared.

They ended in a fit of twitching limbs and howls that were swallowed by the sudden night, as Alfred took a firm hold of England's dripping erection and pumped angrily, the friction nearly burning, but the Briton only screamed and tossed his head back for the last time that night, his hips pistoning wildly against his charge's and his hands squeezing the man's shoulder blades until nails scraped across the pale white skin sheltering them and drew deep maroon from below. Alfred tried to contain himself when the white spurted over his fist and England twisted his body in just the right way that made the beast in the American boy spring to life. His pelvis slammed into the smaller man's with a sickening cracking noise that should have been painful, but the two only cried out into the air thick with sex, and Alfred exploded only a moment after Arthur. Slippery cum trailed down the indented stomach of the Englishman and between his thighs, but he made no movement to clean himself up (like he would have wanted to do, being a gentleman), and merely laid as deep as he could into his welcoming comforter and tried to remember how to breathe. America wasn't much better off, and he had yet to remove himself from England's quivering insides, so he leaned in to Arthur and rested his elbows on either side of his head. He took deep meaningful breaths against Arthur's own, and smiled a cheeky grin as he looked down at the drowsy man beneath him. As soon as he realized the Briton was sleeping, with his eyes fluttering beneath his eyelids in dreams Alfred could only hope were wonderful, if the light smile were any indication, and his head lying to one side in complete satiation, he removed his foggy glasses, and what was left of the abused bouquet, and placed them on the side table. He returned to looming over Arthur, his smile never losing its valor.

"Happy fathers day," he whispered, lifting a hand to hold back England's sandy fringe, and kissed his forehead affectionately. He removed himself to take his clothes off and throw them unceremoniously to a chair by the door. The American pulled the comforter from under them until it was over them (which was pretty tricky, but he was a hero after all), and as he lay down beside his father, he scooped him up against his warm chest and wound his hands into England's, kissing the skin of Arthur's neck until he too, fell to the ways of the sandman.

He'd stay all night, so when the gentleman awoke, he'd know that the night before had all been true.

---

Aggh. I never thought I'd write an America x England haha. When am I going to start writing pairings I actually LOVE? As much as I like these two, they can not compare to Communism hurhurhurrr.

So.

Any requests for fics? I'm usually only stirred to write with prompts haha.

Feel free to leave me an idea you'd like to see in a review!

Thanks for reading!


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